Love Insurance

by Earl Derr Biggers

  "Uh, huh," responded the Chronicle man without enthusiasm, from under his green eye-shade.

  "Glad to know you. We just dropped in—a couple of newspaper men, you know. This is Mr. Harry Howe, until recently managing editor of the Mobile Press. My own name is Robert O'Neill—a humble editorial writer on the same sheet."

  "Uh, huh. If you had jobs for God's sake why did you leave them?"

  "Ah, you may well ask." The red-haired one dropped, uninvited, into a chair. "Old man, it's a dramatic story. The chief of police of Mobile happened to be a crook and a grafter, and we happened to mention it in the Press. Night before last twenty-five armed cops invaded the peace and sanctity of our sanctum. Harry and I—pure accident—landed in the same general heap at the foot of the fire-escape out back. And here we are! Here we are!"

  "My newspaper instinct," said the Chronicle man, "had already enabled me to gather that last."

  Sarcasm. It was a bad sign. But blithely Bob O'Neill continued.

  "Here we are," he said, "two experienced newspaper men, down and out. We thought there might possibly be a vacancy or two on the staff of your paper—"

  The editor threw off his eye-shade, revealing a cynical face.

  "Boys," he said, "I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I've been running this alleged newspaper for two long dreary years, and this laugh you've just handed me is the first I've had during that time. Vacancies! There is one—a big one. See my pocket for particulars. Two years, boys. And all the time hoping—praying—that some day I'd make two dollars and sixty cents, which is the railroad fare to the next town."

  Howe and O'Neill listened with faces that steadily grew more sorrowful.

  "I'd like to stake you to a meal," the editor went on. "But a man's first duty is to his family. Any burglar will tell you that."

  "I suppose," ventured O'Neill, most of the flash gone from his manner, "there is no other newspaper here?"

  "No, there isn't. There's a weird thing here called the San Marco Mail—a morning outrage. It's making money, but by different methods than I'd care to use. You might try there. You look unlucky. Perhaps they'd take you on."

  He rose from his chair, and gave them directions for reaching the Mail office.

  "Good night, boys," he said. "Thank you for calling. You're the first newspaper men I've seen in two years, except when I've looked in the glass. And the other day I broke my lookingglass. Good night, and bad luck go with you to the extent of jobs on the Mail."

  "Cynic," breathed O'Neill in the street. "A bitter tongue maketh a sour face. I liked him not. A morning outrage called the Mail. Sounds promising—like smallpox in the next county."

  "We shall see," said Howe, "that which meets our vision. Forward, march!"

  "The alligator and I," muttered O'Neill, "famished, perishing. For the love of Allah, as I remarked before, alms!"

  In the dark second-floor hallway where the Mail office was suspected of being, they groped about determinedly. No sign of any nature proclaimed San Marco's only morning paper. A solitary light, shining through a transom, beckoned. Boldly O'Neill pushed open the door.

  To the knowing nostrils of the two birds of passage was wafted the odor they loved, the unique inky odor of a newspaper shop. Their eyes beheld a rather bare room, a typewriter or two, a desk. In the center of the room was a small table under an electric lamp. On this table was a bottle and glasses, and at it two silent men played poker. One of the men was burly and bearded; the other was slight, pale, nervous. From an inner room came the click of linotypes—lonesome linotypes that seemed to have strayed far from their native haunts.

  The two men finished playing the hand, and looked up.

  "Good evening," said O'Neill, with a smile that had drawn news as a magnet draws steel in many odd corners. "Gentlemen, four newspaper men meet in a strange land. I perceive you have on the table a greeting unquestionably suitable."

  The bearded man laughed, rose and discovered two extra glasses on a near-by shelf.

  "Draw up," he said heartily. "The place is yours. You're as welcome as pay-day."

  "Thanks." O'Neill reached for a glass. "Let me introduce ourselves." And he mentioned his own name and Howe's.

  "Call me Mears," said the bearded one. "I'm managing editor of the Mail. And this is my city editor, Mr. Elliott."

  "Delighted," breathed O'Neill. "A pleasant little haven you have found here. And your staff —I don't see the members of your staff running in and out?"

  "Mr. O'Neill," said Mears impressively, "you have drunk with the staff of the Mail."

  "You two?" O'Neill's face shone with joy. "Glory be—do you hear that, Harry? These gentlemen all alone on the premises." He leaned over, and poured out eloquently the story of the tragic flight from Mobile. "I call this luck," he finished. "Here we are, broke, eager for work. And we find you minus a—"

  O'Neill stopped. For he had seen a sickly smile of derision float across the face of the weary city editor. And he saw the bearded man shaking his great head violently.

  "Nothing doing," said the bearded man firmly. "Sorry to dash your hopes—always ready to pour another drink. But—there are no vacancies here. No, sir. Two of us are plenty and running over, eh, Bill?"

  "Plenty and running over," agreed the city editor warmly.

  Into their boots tumbled the hearts of the two strangers in a strange land. Gloom and hunger engulfed them. But the managing editor of the Mail was continuing—and what was this he was saying?

  "No, boys—we don't need a staff. Have just as much use for a manicure set. But—you come at an opportune time. IVanderlust—it tickles the soles of four feet to-night, and those four feet are editorial feet on the Mail. Something tells us that we are going away from here. Boys— how would you like our jobs?"

  He stared placidly at the two strangers. O'Neill put one hand to his head.

  "See me safely to my park bench, Harry," he said. "It was that drink on an empty stomach. I'm all in a daze. I hear strange things."

  "I hear 'em, too," said Howe. "See here"— he turned to Mears—"are you offering to resign in our favor?"

  "The minute you say the word."

  "Both of you?"

  "Believe me," said the city editor, "you can't say the word too soon."

  "Well," said Howe, "I don't know what's the matter with the place, but you can consider the deal closed."

  "Spoken like a sport!" The bearded man stood up. "You can draw lots to determine who is to be managing editor and who city editor. It's an excellent scheme—I attained my proud position that way. One condition I attach. Ask no questions. Let us go out into the night unburdened with your interrogation points."

  Elliott, too, stood. The bearded man indicated the bottle. "Fill up, boys. I propose a toast. To the new editors of the Mail. May Heaven bless them and bring them safely back to the North when Florida's fitful fever is past."

  Dizzily, uncertainly, Howe and O'Neill drank. Mr. Mears reached out a great red hand toward the bottle.

  "Pardon me—private property," he said. He pocketed it. "We bid you good-by and good luck. Think of us on the choo-choo, please. Riding far—riding far."

  "But—see here—" cried O'Neill.

  "But me no buts," said Mears again. "Nary a question, I beg of you. Take our jobs, and if you think of us at all, think of gleaming rails and a speeding train. Once more—good-by."

  The door slammed. O'Neill looked at Howe.

  "Fairies," he muttered, "or the D. T's. What is this—a comic opera or a town? You are managing editor, Harry. I shall be city editor. Is there a city to edit? No matter."

  "No," said Howe. He reached for the greasy pack of cards. "We draw for it. Come on. High wins."

  "Jack," announced Mr. O'Neill.

  "Deuce," smiled Howe. "What are your orders, sir?"

  O'Neill passed one hand before his eyes.

  "A steak," he muttered. "Well done. Mushroom sauce. French fried potatoes. I've always dreamed of running a paper some day. Hurry up w
ith that steak."

  "Forget your stomach," said Howe. "If a subordinate may make a suggestion, we must get out a newspaper. Ah, whom have we here?"

  A stocky, red-faced man appeared from the inner room and stood regarding them.

  "Where's Mears and Elliott?" he demanded.

  "On a train, riding far," said O'Neill. "I am the new managing editor. What can I do for you?"

  "You can give me four columns of copy for the last page of to-morrow's Mail," said the stocky man calmly. "I'm foreman of something in there we call a composing-room. Glad to meet you."

  "Four columns," mused O'Neill. "Four columns of what?"

  The foreman pointed to a row of battered books on a shelf.

  "It's been the custom," he said, "to fill up with stuff out of that encyclopedia there."

  "Thanks," O'Neill answered. He took down a book. "We'll fix you up in ten minutes. Mr. Howe, will you please do me two columns on— er—mulligatawny—murder—mushrooms. That's it. On mushrooms. The life-story of the humble little mushroom. I myself will dash off a column or so on the climate of Algeria."

  The foreman withdrew, and Howe and O'Neill stood looking at each other.

  "Once," said O'Neill, "I ran an editorial page in Boston, where you can always fill space by printing letters from citizens who wish to rewrite Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, and do it right. But I never struck anything like this before."

  "Me either," said Howe. "Mushrooms, did you say?"

  They sat down before typewriters.

  "One thing worries me," remarked O'Neill. "If we'd asked the president of the First National Bank for jobs, do you suppose we'd be in charge there now?"

  "Write, man, write," said Howe. The clatter of their fingers on the keys filled the room.

  They looked up suddenly ten minutes later to find a man standing between them. He was a little man, clad all in white, suit, shoes, stockings. His sly old face was a lemon yellow, and his eyes suggested lights flaming in the dark woods at night.

  "Beg pardon," said the little man.

  "Ah, and what can we do for you?" inquired O'Neill.

  "Nothing. Mr. Mears? Mr. Elliott?"

  "Gone. Vamosed. You are now speaking to the managing editor of the Mail."

  "Ah. Indeed?"

  "We are very busy. If you'll just tell me what you want—"

  "I merely dropped in. I am Manuel Gonzale, owner of the Mail."

  "Good lord!" cried O'Neill.

  "Do not be disturbed. I take it you gentlemen have replaced Mears and Elliott. I am glad. Let them go. You look like bright young men to me—quite bright enough. I employ you."

  "Thanks," stammered the managing editor.

  "Don't mention it. Here is Madame On Dit's column for to-morrow. It runs on the first page. As for the rest of the paper, suit yourselves."

  O'Neill took the copy, and glanced through it.

  "Are there no libel laws down here?" he asked.

  "The material in that column," said the little man, his eyes narrowing, "concerns only me. You must understand that at once."

  "The Madame writes hot stuff," ventured O'Neill.

  "I am the Madame," said the owner of the Mail with dignity.

  He removed the copy from O'Neill's hand, and glided with it into the other room. Scarcely had he disappeared when the door was opened furiously and a panting man stood inside. Mr. Henry Trimmer's keen eye surveyed the scene.

  "Where's Mears—Elliott?" he cried.

  "You're not the cashier, are you?" asked O'Neill with interest.

  "Don't try to be funny," roared Trimmer. "I'm looking for the editor of this paper."

  "Your search is ended," O'Neill replied. "What is it?"

  "You mean you— Say! I've got a front-page story for to-morrow's issue that will upset the town."

  "Come to my arms," cried O'Neill. "What is it?"

  "The real Lord Harrowby has been kidnaped."

  O'Neill stared at him sorrowfully.

  "Have you been reading the Duchess again?" he asked. "Who the hell is Lord Harrowby?'"

  "Do you mean to say you don't know? Where have you been buried alive?"

  Out of the inner room glided Manuel Gonzale, and recognizing him, Mr. Trimmer poured into his ear the story of George's disappearance. Mr. Gonzale rubbed his hands.

  "A good story," he said. "A very good story. Thank you, a thousand times. I myself will write it."

  With a scornful glance at the two strangers, Mr. Trimmer went out, and Manuel Gonzale sat down at his desk. O'Neill and Howe returned to their encyclopedic despatches.

  "There you are," said Gonzale at last, standing. "Put an eight column head on that, please, and run it on the front page. A very fine story. The paper must go to press"— he looked at a diamond studded watch—"in an hour. Only four pages. Please see to the make-up. My circulation manager will assist- you with the distribution." At the door he paused. "It occurs to me that your exchequer may be low. Seventy-five dollars a week for the managing editor. Fifty for the city editor. Allow me— ten dollars each in advance. If you need more, pray remind me."

  Into their hands he put crinkling bills. And then, gliding still like the fox he looked, he went out into the night.

  "Sister," cried O'Neill weakly, "the fairies are abroad to-night. I hear the rustle of their feet over the grass."

  "Fairies," sneered Howe. "I could find another and a harsher name for them."

  "Don't," pleaded O'Neill. "Don't look a gift bill in the treasury number. Don't try to penetrate behind the beyond. Say nothing and let us eat. How are you coming with the mushroom serial?"

  An hour later they sent the paper to press, and sought the grill room of the Hotel Alameda. As they came happily away from that pleasant spot, O'Neill spied a fruit-stand. He stopped and made a few purchases.

  "Now," said Howe, "let us go over and meet the circulation manager. Here—where are you going, Bob?"

  "Just a minute," O'Neill shouted back. "Come along, Harry. I'm going over to the plaza! I'm going over to feed that alligator!"

  Chapter 11

  TEARS FROM THE GAIETY

  FRIDAY morning found Mr. Minot ready for whatever diplomacy the day might demand of him. He had a feeling that the demand would be great. The unheralded arrival of Miss Gabrielle Rose and her packet of letters presented no slight complication. Whatever the outcome of any suit she might start against Harrowby, Minot was sure that the mere announcement of it would be sufficient to blast Jephson's hopes for all time. Old Spencer Meyrick, already inflamed by the episode of the elder brother, was not likely to take coolly the publication of Harrowby's incriminating letters.

  After an early breakfast, Minot sent a cable to Jephson telling of Miss Rose's arrival and asking for information about her. Next he sought an interview with the Gaiety lady.

  An hour later, in a pink and gold parlor of the Hotel de la Pax, he stood gazing into the china-blue eyes of Miss Gabrielle Rose. It goes without saying that Miss Rose was pretty; innocent she seemed, too, with a baby stare that said as plainly as words: "Please don't harm me, will you?" But—ah, well, Lord Harrowby was not the first to learn that a business woman may lurk back of a baby stare.

  "You come from Lord Harrowby?" And the smile that had decorated ten million postcards throughout the United Kingdom flashed on Mr. Minot. "Won't you sit down?"

  "Thanks." Minot fidgeted. He had no idea what to say. Time—it was time he must fight for, as he was fighting with Trimmer. "Er—Miss Rose," he began, "when I started out on this errand I had misgivings. But now that I have seen you, they are gone. Everything will be all right, I know. I have come to ask that you show Lord Harrowby some leniency."

  The china-blue eyes hardened.

  "You have come on a hopeless errand, Mr—er —Minot. Why should I show Harrowby any consideration? Did he show me any—when he broke his word to me and made me the laughingstock of the town?"

  "But that all happened five years ago—" "Yes, but it is as vivid as though it were yesterd
ay. I have always intended to demand some redress from his lordship. But my art—Mr.— Mr. Minot—you have no idea how exacting art can be. Not until now have I been in a position to do so."

  "And the fact that not until now has his lordship proposed to marry some one else—that of course has nothing to do with it?"

  "Mr. Minot!" A delightful pout. "If you knew me better you could not possibly ask that."

  "Miss Rose, you're a clever woman—"

  "Oh, please don't. I hate clever women, and I'm sure you do, too. I'm not a bit clever, and I'm proud of it. On the contrary, I'm rather weak—rather easily got round. But when I think of the position Allan put me in—even a weak woman can be firm in the circumstances."

  "Have it your own way," said Minot, bowing. "But you are at least clever enough to understand the futility of demanding financial redress from a man who is flat broke. I assure you Lord Harrowby hasn't a shilling."

  "I don't believe it. He can get money somehow. He always could. The courts can force him to. I shall tell my lawyer to go ahead with the suit."

  "If you would only delay—a week—"

  "Impossible." Miss Rose spoke with haughty languor. "I begin rehearsals in New York in a week. No, I shall start suit to-day. You may tell Lord Harrowby so."

  Poor Jephson! Minot had a mental picture of the little bald man writing at that very moment a terribly large check for the Dowager Duchess of Tremayne—paying for the rain that had fallen in torrents. He must at least hold this woman off until Jephson answered his cable.

  "Miss Rose," he pleaded, "grant us one favor. Do not make public your suit against Harrowby until I have seen you again—say, at four o'clock this afternoon."